It was raining that day.
Not the soft, poetic kind of rain.
The angry kind—like the sky was screaming and no one was listening.
I had just returned from my third regional race—I came first.
Gold medal. Cheers. Cameras. The works.
But all I could think about was him.
I don't know what pushed me. Maybe it was the storm. Maybe it was winning and still feeling like something was missing. Maybe it was the stupid dream I had the night before—where Shabd stood at the finish line, clapping for me.
So I did something reckless.
I put on my hoodie, got on my bike, and rode straight to the medical college gate where I knew he had classes. I didn't care about the rain or my soaked shoes or my helmet hair.
I stood there, outside the gate, heart pounding like an engine at the starting line.
Then I saw him.
Shabd. Walking out with his usual calm. Bag slung over one shoulder. Rain sliding off his umbrella. Headphones in.
I raised my hand to wave—
Stopped.
Because beside him…
Was a girl.
Tall. Graceful. Laughing at something he said.
They walked past me. He didn't even glance.
I stood there, soaked, silent, and invisible.
That was the moment.
I almost told him.
Almost shouted, "Shabd! I won! I'm racing! I've loved you since 6th grade and I don't care if you never feel the same!"
But the words froze in my throat.
Because what do you say to someone who's already walked away—without ever knowing they were your entire race?
I turned around and rode home, faster than I ever had. The tears mixed with rain. No one could tell the difference.
That night, in my scrapbook, I wrote:
"I stood at the edge of my biggest confession.
And all I could do… was watch him walk past."
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